


The Bear and the Giant

by QueenoftheHobbits



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Some Fluff, Some angst, my belief that Tormund is okay, overweight reader, plus size reader, set post seasons 7, some smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-16
Updated: 2018-08-15
Packaged: 2019-06-28 00:02:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15696078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenoftheHobbits/pseuds/QueenoftheHobbits
Summary: You failed to tell Tormund how you felt before he left for Eastwatch and now you hear if the news. Your hope that he’s survived is one of the few bright spots in it all. You’re determined to say the words you want to say to him. [Reader is the cousin of Lyanna Mormont]





	1. Chapter 1

“Eastwatch.” It’s a statement, not a question because you knew exactly what happened to Eastwatch. Everyone in Winterfell was talking about it, everyone was talking about how the wall had fallen, how the army of the dead had a bloody undead dragon…how worried they were, how doubting they were. If the army of the dead was terrible before, what was it now it had a dragon? Now it had something so dangerous, so fearsome. Faith was slipping, but you had to lie and bolster each time you talked to someone. Some of them listened. Some of them called you a stupid girl, a silly lady, a bear of Mormont that didn’t know any better. How could a bear defeat a dragon? You replied ‘with claws and teeth and an overbearing desire to survive’. It wasn’t the best argument. Dragons had claws and teeth too, bigger ones. But even the biggest creatures could fall to the smallest ones. You needed people to keep faith or else you’d never win this fight.

“You heard then?” You and Jon are standing along the wall of Winterfell, looking out over the cold, snowy landscape. It won’t be long before the dead turn up. That you’re sure. Your mother always said your extra weight would keep you warm when winter came…that was a lie. You were as cold as the rest of them. Your plump waist, soft stomach or wide hips didn’t make the cold any more bearable. Forgive the turn of phrase of course. Perhaps your ancestor, the founder of your house chose a bear for that very reason. The ability to make jokes in casual conversation. If so they were certainly a jolly fellow.

“Do we know…is Tormund…?”

“We don’t know, we haven’t heard a thing. But he’s a tough old goat.” It doesn’t inspire much confidence in you. But it doesn’t crush your hopes either, without a body who was to know if he was dead or if he was alive…or if he was a walker. You hoped he was alive. You prayed to the Old Gods and the New Gods, that he was still alive.

“I’m terrified. I’m terrified that he’s dead, Jon…that he’s not coming back. Shitty, crude, violent wildling he might be, but I started to care for him. He was kind to me. Gentle. Gentler than he needed to be.” He wasn’t like other men. Southern men. He didn’t make jokes about your size, didn’t lie to your face and whisper behind your back, didn’t even make those crude jokes at you. Made them to others, but to you…to you he was always polite, never made a joke about your cunt or your breasts, never talked about his cock, never. He was kind. He was polite…despite chewing loudly at dinner and swearing at those he had a problem with. To you he was…well, not a perfect gentleman, but as close as a wildling with no concept of such a thing could get. Tried to be at least. Tried not to treat you too harshly, or too rough.

“I know. I can’t promise he’s alive. I can’t promise he’s dead. I can’t know. Not unless he walks through those gates.” Jon gestured towards the gates of Winterfell. “But I know you cared for him, I know he cared for you and he was my friend too. Don’t you think I’m worried for him as well? I want him to be okay. I want to believe that he’s survived worse, that he’s survived behind the wall all his life, that he’ll survive this too. But I don’t want to promise you something I can’t guarantee nor keep.”

“I know.”

The two of you stand there in silence for a time. You know Jon can’t promise anything. None of you can. If he’s dead then he’s dead and no amount of promises or praying will bring him back, not as himself anyway. But if he’s alive then he’ll survive long enough to get to you, to get to Winterfell.

“He used to make you eat his portion of bread at dinner.” You try not to dwell on the fact you’re both talking in past tense as if he’s already dead...

You huff out a laugh, “I once said to him that I was big enough, full grown, more than grown even. He told me I could always do with more meat…he never judged me. Never tried to make me feel bad for being fat…made me feel good. Made sure I ate more food than him, made sure I was eating enough to keep me going when winter came. He’s the first person to ever suggest I eat more, not less.”

“You looked at him like he was crazy the first time he handed you his portion of bread.”

“I thought he was crazy. He probably is. But I understand now…why he did it. He cared and he wanted to make sure I ate well even if I probably didn’t need more bread. He just…wanted to provide for me I suppose.” You don’t doubt that during winter, if the food was limited, he’d have sacrificed his own meal for you. As strange as it seemed, you had no doubt that he’d rather see you fed than himself. Like a mother hen really. A big, ginger, mother hen who wields an axe and can bite a man’s throat out. But a mother hen nonetheless.

“You also thought he was crazy for calling you a little mouse.”

“Well, I’m not little nor am I a mouse. I’m a bear of Bear Island. I might be shorter than him, but I’m still not little. No one has called me little since I was a child of five.” Except Tormund. Little Mouse he’d call you, then it progressed to Little Bear. Little She-Bear of Bear Island. Names. Endearments, that was what they were, attempts at being familiar and they worked. Sometimes he’d call you pretty woman or beauty. Rarely, but sometimes, when he felt like making you flustered. It always worked.

“You were little to him. I think once you’ve seen a giant everyone is little and he had quite a few friends who were giants. He also thought it would make you like him.”

“Well…he was right about that. People don’t give ladies personalised names. Except parents or siblings…or bullies. But he did. It made me feel like I was important, special, particular. Even if it was completely wrong to call me little.” It made you feel like you were someone he cared about. Made you feel like he had taken the time to call you little names even if those little names didn’t quite fit who you were or even if those names made you flustered and confused. He didn’t call the other women those names. It made you feel special.

“I remember the first time he broke someone’s nose for mentioning your…”

“My cunt. Yeah. For a man that proclaims that he fucked a bear and who liked to talk about his cock and his abilities quite frequently, he never did so around me or to me. Never let anyone else do so either.”

“He…I think he knew you weren’t like women of the Free Folk…that it wouldn’t make you laugh loudly or make you want to test his claims and see if he was telling the truth. I think he knew that that wasn’t something we did and I think…I think he wanted you to feel comfortable around him, trust him. Think he wanted you to feel safe.”

“He’s right to think I would have been wary of him if he’d been…if he’d been crude. Men who talk about their cocks and talk about others cunts often are the worst type of men. They take. They rape. They could give a rat’s ass about what women want. But he…he wasn’t like that.”

“Most of the Free Folk aren’t like that. Women fight back, men lie with a woman if she wants to be laid with. Otherwise certain appendages would go missing. There’s a…a certain respect their, equality, that we don’t have south of the wall.” You can see that look on his face. He often gets it when talking about free women. That look of admiration mixed with sorrow, like he misses someone. You know he does. Everyone’s heard the story of how Jon Snow fell in love with a wildling woman who died. Everyone knows it. You know he misses her, feels her death strongly still. You can understand both emotions in that moment, for the first time you understand.

The Free Folk are to be admired as troublesome as your history with them has been. They do what they want, choose their partners, fight for themselves, for others. They don’t allow slights to occur. They avenge those they love and live life like they want to. And they make you care for them rather easily. Jon for Ygritte and you for Tormund. The last people either of you ever expected to feel for and yet you did and now both of you missed them. You were scared that he was dead. Jon knew she was dead and felt it as strongly as you felt Tormund’s absence.

“He was always a good man. Strange…strange that he could tear someone’s throat out, fight like a real wild thing and yet be so gentle. He’d make sure I got to my room safely at night. Feed me extra bread or meat at dinner. Avoid crude words and language around me. Make sure I had extra layers if it grew colder…fight someone for saying a bad word about me and yet…”

“Yet he’s a good killer. A man that could kill most other men. Strange, how some of the most vicious bastards can also be the kindest. How a man known for killing well can be gentle.”

“I never…growing up…I never thought that I’d marry or love or even care for a man like Tormund. If I even knew men like Tormund existed back then.” You turn away from the wall to look up towards the stars. It is late after all and perhaps they can provide you with some clarity, some comfort.

“I…I thought, being a lady, the cousin to Lyanna Mormont, that I’d marry someone gentle and sweet. A graceful fighter, but not a killer nor a warrior. Someone pretty. Tall and lithe, fancy armour. Fancy clothes. Neat hair, clean shaven or at most a well-trimmed beard. Someone who would never tell tall tales of how they fucked a bear or were nursed by a giant. Someone of noble birth, maybe not someone I chose, but someone nice, polite, clean. A pretty boy. Someone like you or your brother, someone like Loras Tyrell or Prince Tommen. Rather boring I suppose.” You look back over at Jon, catch his eye for a second before looking back up at the stars. “All ladies are taught to want a man like that. Pretty. Kind. Clean and safe. To think…”

“To think you love a wildling.”

“King of the Free Folk. A great big ginger bastard. With the most unkempt red beard, the messiest red hair. Eyes so intense that he could scare most men…not soft spoken, no poetry or fancy words. Crude language, even if he tries to hide it from me, swearing and blinding. Vicious. Violent. A killer…and perhaps one of the gentlest and kindest men I have ever met. He’s big and tall. Broad. Strong. He doesn’t wear fancy silks or brocade. Just furs, hides, warmth over beauty. Practicality over style. He can’t read or write, but he can talk to giants and men alike. He has no name, no lands. But a title all the same. One he didn’t even ask for. When I was fifteen, had you told me about Tormund Giantsbane, told me that I would one day care for him so deeply that it hurt, ached…I would have thought you insane. He’s not a pretty boy.” No. He’s not a boy at all. He’s a man. He’s rough. He’s shaped by life. By harshness. He’s never been a pretty boy. But with age you stopped wanting pretty boys who spoke sweet words but didn’t mean them. With age…with age came an appreciation for rough men like Tormund. Men who said what they thought and said what they felt. Men who were honest. Men who didn’t waste their time pleasing you unless they wanted to please you.

“He used to say I was a pretty boy. Joked about how I was prettier than most people’s daughters, that I was prettier than most wildlings. Tried to mess with me…they all did. The Free Folk don’t care much for pretty people, might want to lie with them, but pretty means nothing if you can’t survive. He wasn’t pretty.”

“No, he was rough. Handsome. But the rough sort of handsome. You’re pretty, everyone recognises that a pretty man is pretty. But, Tormund…he was handsome in his own way. I thought he was handsome…rugged., reckless, volatile, big, rough, unkempt…and handsome. I think that maybe it was that roughness that made me think he was so handsome. Beautiful even though he looked like he’d crawled out of a hedgerow. He always looked like he could protect me…and he could and maybe…maybe it was the strength that made him so handsome. Or maybe it was the way he talked to me or the way he smiled…or maybe I’m just mad. Maybe I’m the only woman in the Seven Kingdoms who’d ever think he was handsome…”

“It seems mad, doesn’t? You, a highborn lady and him, a member of the Free Folk, a wildling. Seems mad to me that I ever let them through the wall, that I ever became friends with a wildling…but we both did the maddest thing possible.” You laugh with him, he’s right. You both grew attached to members of a people that you’d once been told to hate, to be scared of.  Both grew to love people that were the opposite of what you were told to fall in love with or marry or look for. Fell for members of a people that featured in your night time horror stories, how the wildlings would take girls from their homes and slaughter their families. They did, but it was more than that now. More than either of you thought. You’d fallen for them _because_ they were Free Folk.

“I…I wish we’d parted on better terms. When you sent him to Eastwatch...I…”

“You argued. I saw. Stupid argument if you ask me.”

“It was stupid. I was upset that he admired Brienne for her ability to fight, for her size. I can’t fight like that. I can wield a sword in self-defence but I’m no expert swordsmen…and he…he was the first man that found me pretty for my size even if he never said it in so many words and…and she’s a large woman, different sort of large, but large. I was…I suppose I was jealous. Worried that he’d find her more intriguing than me, that I’d lose his favour. Stupid. He told me so himself. Stupid that I should think he wanted her. If he wanted her he’d have gone after her. I should have told him how much I cared, told him I loved him...that I’d miss him. Should have told him to be careful rather than worrying about another woman who couldn’t be less interested if she tried. It should have been a proper goodbye, not a stupid, stupid argument.”

“It was stupid. You were stupid. But he was stupid too. He’s from a people who are blunt, clear, and yet he never told you he cared or that he was interested. Most women he might have made some crude joke about bedding them. Instead he shows interest in Brienne, innocent, but interest all the same. Should have told you how he felt. But…I think you were the first woman he didn’t think would appreciate bluntness. Think he was scared of you running off if he said something to harsh, if he mentioned his cock or your cunt.” Jon is your friend, but even you can see he’s mildly uncomfortable about having to talk about you and to you like this. Jon was never one for vulgar language, Ned Stark’s son through and through…even if he wasn’t actually Ned Stark’s son. But Tormund requires crude language, it is who he is, even if he staunchly avoided saying those things to you.

“I wish he’d been blunt and crude, wish I’d been blunt and crude. Told him that I wanted him. Had him tell me…instead…instead he could be dead and I’m here mopping like a little girl because I never said what should have been said.”

“Only time will tell. If he comes back that is.” The two of you stayed in silence once more, both gazing at the stars side by side. Companionship, friendship at its finest, when you could both brood together. Just stare at the stars, your own thoughts quietly buzzing in your mind. Simple. Jon was good company to brood with, an expert at it.

You wrap your arms tighter around yourself, pulling your cloak tighter, each day it grows colder as winter approaches, as the army of the dead grows nearer. A Mormont you are, a Northern lady, but this is cold like you’ve never felt before. True cold. The cold that burns your lungs. That freezes your fingers. That stiffens your knees. That makes warmth burn.

“I have a favour to ask. Maybe it will keep you busy from worrying about Tormund.”

“Ask away, Jon Snow. I promised you my support, my sword arm, my name. So ask.” You’re rather grateful for a task, the opportunity to distract yourself. To stop you from standing at the gates every day waiting for Tormund to come through them or the dead in his place. To stop you from agonising over your last words and the words you failed to say to him.

“Arya can defend herself. Of this I know without doubt. It’s rather terrifying how well she can. But Sansa can’t…she fights with words and wit not swords. But the dead don’t care for words. Teach her to defend herself with a sword, at least. Nothing special, just enough to keep her safe if…if the walls are ever breached. If no one else is there to protect her.”

“I’m not an expert fighter…but defence? That I can teach. I can teach her how to look after herself when no one else can. Besides should be interesting to see her lift a sword for the first time.” Sansa is a tough lady, you know this, but she is through and through a lady. Her weapons are words and wit, if anything poison. Not swords, but it would do her good to learn, just in case…and it would do you good to have someone to focus your energy on.

“I trust you with her. She needs to learn. She has to learn and Arya…Arya is too harsh, they’d simply fight. You are kinder.”

“I know the sting of words quite well. Kindness is sometimes a better motivator than cruelty. Not always. But sometimes.” At least when learning that is. Sansa was more likely to learn with encouragement than with criticism. She was too used to feeling helpless, criticism would only anger her.

“If he comes back. You’ll be one of the first to know. I’ll watch. Keep an eye out…”

“You don’t believe he’s dead either.”

“I’ve seen that man fight. I’ve seen him survive the Battle of Bastards, survive surrounded by the dead, survive climbing the Wall. If anyone can survive what happened at Eastwatch, it’s Tormund.” You nod to him, accepting his words. They’re not a promise, but they’re an explanation, an understanding of why he believes he’s alive. Why you also believe he’s alive. Because Tormund Giantsbane was a fighter, a survivor through and through.

“Goodnight, Jon.” You leave him, walking away and back towards your quarters, feeling like a mass of fur and hide. It is good to remove each layer and fall into the bed you have been given. To feel like yourself. Not a mass of furs, but a mass of you, a mass that you had started to appreciate after arriving at Winterfell…after meeting Tormund. What man would ever compare to a man that looked at you like Tormund had, even if those looks had made you bashful and unsure, shy even. What man could compare to that giant of a ginger? You weren’t sure any could…and if you were to die alone then at least you knew that Tormund had existed once. That a man like that could exist. A good. Strong. Kind. Ferocious man. A man like that could love you even if he never said those words.

You fall asleep with a tightness in your throat and tears at the corners of your eyes. A quiet sadness that you hold inside yourself. You won’t mourn him until there is a body to mourn. You won’t sob for him. Won’t scream for him until they show you his body.


	2. Chapter 2

Days passed without a sign of Tormund. Each day you spent at least an hour if not more with Sansa in the courtyard training. You would shove a sword in her hand and tell her to swing. At first her stance was off, easy to hit her, easy to put her off balance. Her grip was too tight then it was too weak. But with each encouragement and direction she grew stronger as a swords woman. She’d likely never become an expert, but the more competent she was the more she could defend herself.

“Remember, don’t be led. Don’t just assume that your opponent is going left because they suggest they are, be ready to change your course. Be ready for them to go right instead.” You are not used to teaching others how to fight, but you find the distraction useful. It helps you steer clear of sad thoughts and worries during the day.

“Good, now don’t leave your left open. You fixate on yo-” You are interrupted mid direction by a familiar booming voice. One who’s accent you could never forget not after fifty years, let alone a few months or a few days. “Open the gates! Open the gates you bastards!” It’s rough and harsh, rougher than normal.

You look across the courtyard to Jon who meets your eyes. He recognises that voice too. Tormund. There’s a thrill that goes through you, a realisation that he’s not dead, that those hopes, those prayers have been answered. You’re barely even aware that you’re excusing yourself, sword being sheathed, feet taking you closer to the gates as the guards open them at the harsh voice and banging fists on the wood.

Jon is next to you in an instant.

The gates open and Tormund…it is Tormund. He looks rough. Rougher than usual, at any rate. Ice in his beard, red hair dulled by snow and frost. He is bruised and battered, holds himself like he might collapse at any moment. He’s exhausted.

“You look like shit.” Tormund snorts at Jon’s comment moving forward to pull him into a hug, one which speaks of their close friendship. “Still look better than you, Snow.” Part of you agrees. Even thought Jon is the pretty boy of the two. Tormund still looks ruggedly handsome even frost covered and exhausted.

You’re almost scared in those moments waiting for him and Jon to pull away from each other. Almost scared of what he’ll say or do when he finally looks at you. Almost scared of what you might do. You’ve already got tears of relief filling your eyes at simply seeing him okay, at knowing he’s alive, when so many people believed otherwise.

His eyes are still clear and blue, but not the unearthly blue of a walker, as he finally pulls away from Jon to look at you. Quickly brushing frost from his beard and hair, neatening up his clothes as if that matters right now. As if he has to make himself look neat and tidy for you before he even thinks of speaking. It is sweet, how he tries to straighten his clothes and brush the frost and ice from his beard. He is grinning at you like he always does, such a sweet grin, one that said he was happy to see you. Excited to see you, “Little She-Bear, did-“

He hasn’t even finished his sentence when you reach for him and pull him tightly to you in a hug…or perhaps its more of an embrace. He is freezing cold, his clothes chilly against your cheek and neck, sending a shiver through you. But, you need this you realise as tears fall quietly from your eyes. You needed to hold him close, to wrap your arms tightly around his middle, to feel him close. To feel that he was okay. To feel his chest, rise and fall with each breath. He doesn’t continue what he was going to say, instead he holds you closer if that is possible, arms wrapping around your plump waist and hips pulling you tightly into him. His fingers, even in his thick gloves, dig through your layers of clothing and can be felt tight against your skin. Digging into your hips and side in a way that you decide you adore, and perhaps would adore more with less layers between you two. His beard brushes against your hair and neck as your press your face into the space between his neck and shoulder, hoping to hide your tears from prying eyes. But you know he can feel them, little wet drops against the few bits of uncovered skin he has. You know he can tell that those tears are from relief, that you did miss him, that you missed him so much, feared for him so much that crying was all you could do in that moment. His grip tightens at the feeling of those little droplets.

“I missed you, you Ginger Giant.” You pull back slightly, just enough to look up at him. His grin has settled into a subtler smile but it’s there, you choose to ignore the staring faces around you and instead focus on him. He’s all that matters right now. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry! I shouldn’t have said those things, I should have said that…” You find it hard to say still, to tell him you love him, even though that was all you wanted to say when you feared his death. You’re still scared of being so open, so blunt with your emotions.

He presses his forehead against your own and despite being an innocent gesture it feels intimate, the mingling of your breaths, the inability to look away from his eyes, the brushing of your noses. The feeling of him and only him, surrounding your senses, “No. I should have told you how beautiful you are my Little She-Bear, how I want to make handsome beautiful babies with you, how I would steal you away and make you my wife. I should have told you. I tried not to scare you and instead upset you. I should be sorry. Free Folk shouldn’t hide from their feelings. Stupid. Free Folk are built to say them clearly, you needed me to say them clearly and I did not.”

“I shouldn’t have needed you to say those things, Tormund. I should have taken your actions for what they were…I shouldn’t have…I should have told you I’d miss you…that I love you in case you…” You don’t say it but you both know that you mean in case he died. In case he never came back. If he hadn’t you’d never have had the opportunity to tell him.  “I love you, Tormund Giantsbane. You great big ginger bastard. I love that you make me eat extra food even though I don’t need it” He scoffs at that as if he’s about to argue that you always need more food, “I love that you walk me back to my room at night, that you call me your Little She-Bear. I love that you grin at me like I am the only person you have wanted to see all day. I love your fiery red hair. I love your stupid beard.” You tug on it lightly. “I love you and I should have said it before you left. I should have said it every day since I knew.”

“If you had I’d never have left, Beauty. Snow, would have had to pry me away from you, axe and all.” His stare is growing increasingly intense, that look he gets where his eyes widen, where his focus is so fixed. But it doesn’t scare you, you know its not the exact same stare he gives men before he fights them. It’s different. It is for you. It’s a look that tells you, you have his undivided attention, that you have his affection solely in that moment.

His nose nudges against yours lightly, “I love you. I am not good with words. Not like you or Snow or your little southern lordlings. But, I love you. You are kind, beautiful, smart…you make me want to look after you, provide for you, make little babies with you. Ones with red hair and your eyes. I cannot steal you away like normal. I cannot win you by carrying you over the Wall because we’re not over the Wall. But I want too. I want to steal you and make you my wife.”

“I’d let you steal me.” You would. You’d put up no fight, just what was expected of you. Let him carry you over the wall, make you his wife. Have his little red-haired children, love them, care for them. You had no responsibility here, lady you might just be. But not one with a title of any importance, you weren’t Lyanna. You’d never inherit Bear Island and you never wanted too. You were destined to marry for the sake of marrying. You could be stolen away by him and no one would be any worse off. You’d let him. Maybe not back then, had you never met him before, but now. Yes.

“My Little She-Bear wife…” You like the sound of that as he nuzzles his nose against yours again, “I’d fight like a She-Bear for you too, Ginger Giant.” You’d fight for him, beside him. Fight to keep him safe even though he doesn’t need you to do that, even thought he’s an excellent fighter without you.

“I may not be able to steal you over the Wall…but I could steal you to somewhere else, Little She-Bear.” You can no longer feel the eyes of a million watchers on you, you assume Jon must have told them to leave the two of you alone. To give you some privacy. He was a good friend, Jon Snow. A good man.

“Oh, really? And where would you steal me away to?” You brush your nose against his again, it oddly enough seems even more intimate in that moment than a kiss. You want to kiss him, want to feel the brush of his beard against your skin, but you don’t want to break this moment. This moment that makes your heart feel so full it aches, in the best way possible.

“To my bed of course…not much of a home here, but its somewhere to steal you away to. Somewhere to take you, Little She-Bear.” You know ‘take’ has two meanings in this instant, can hear it in the change of tone in his voice and see it in the almost lecherous smirk. He’ll physically take you there and he’ll also bed you.

“Would we get married? Southern married?” You whisper it because for all his mention of you becoming his little wife you are unsure if he would consent to a marriage in the eyes of the Gods, the Old Gods. If he’d rather a wildling marriage, one without oaths or words or bindings. One where you simply live together, make love, have children together.

“Yes, for you, we would. You would become my wife in all kingdoms, for all people. My wife.” You feel relief rush through you, you love him and you would gladly let him steal you away…but while your family, especially Lyanna, may just accept your marriage to Tormund especially with his somewhat official role of King of the Free Folk, you doubt they’d accept you living as married without a ‘true’ marriage to him.

“I’d like that…to be married. Would I be Giantsbane or would you be Mormont?” You know Giantsbane isn’t a true surname, rather a name given to him. But you are unsure if he would legally take yours or would you both stay as you are.

“Whatever pleases you, Little She-Bear. I become a bear and Giantsbane or you become Giantsbane or we stay as we are. A Bear and a Giant.”

“Sounds like a song.”

“A good one. With lots of kissing and red-haired babies.” You laugh at him, forehead slipping from his own to fall onto his shoulder. He is so eager for babies, but you both know it will wait until the Long Night is done, until this war against the dead is done. But, you want that eagerness, want to see him dot over your children, over you as you carry them…you also want what comes before. Want to lie with him as woman lies with man, want to test to see if his bragging about his prowess is true. To see if he truly knows how to pleasure a woman or if he simply says those things to make himself seem bigger. You doubt he’s lying. Tormund is not much of a liar. An embellisher of truths perhaps…but only rarely does he lie and even then, it is obvious such as his fucking of the bear which he never did fuck.

“You need to speak to Jon…and get some warm food, a bath.” You pull away from him reluctantly, but you know you have to finish training Sansa, that he needs to talk to Jon about Eastwatch. That he needs to care for himself. You cannot stay there locked in his arms, time does not stop for you nor do your responsibilities.

“I’ll steal you away when you least expect it, Beauty.” The kiss is pressed into your forehead, not painfully hard, but hard enough that you know it means more than just a quick kiss. It is his promise that he’ll come for you at some point soon. That this discussion, this conversation is not over. That now the words have been said you will never get rid of him, you don’t wish too either.

You spend the rest of your day training Sansa, longer and harder than usual. She takes it in her stride, understanding the necessity, and with each ‘failure’ she grows better, stronger. She might not ever be an expert swordsman, perhaps never as good as Jon, but she would be better than many. She would be able to defend herself. You find yourself somewhat distracted throughout training, your mind on Tormund, on the promise he’d left you with.

It wasn’t until dinner that you saw him again, he chose to sit next to you as he always had done and as he always had done he passed you his portion of bread without a word and gave you a look which told you not to argue as you had tried time and time again. Instead you took it and along with your own portion of bread and stew ate heartily. It was perhaps more food than you could stomach or needed, but you understood that Tormund wanted to look after you in this small way and so chose not to complain. In truth it was kind of him, to make sure you had enough to eat, to ensure you wouldn’t go hungry, especially as you never had, and he had gone hungry for large parts of his life beyond the Wall.

Neither of you talk much a dinner, little reassurances are instead given via the touch of a hand to a shoulder or a knee. Jon does most of the talking reassuring the lords around the table about Eastwatch, providing a strength for them to follow, for them to believe in. It would do no good to have them back out now when you needed them most and some of them were inclined to do so, Glover in particular.

Dinner was thus rather quiet, and you allowed him to walk you back to your room as he always had done, allowed him to kiss your forehead and wish you a goodnight with a new twinkle in his eye. You didn’t think much of that twinkle, not after an incredibly warm and filling dinner, not after a tiring day of teaching Sansa how to use a sword, not after the emotionally exhausting reunion with Tormund. No, you simply changed into your night clothes, a wool nightdress, and slide beneath the covers and furs of your bed.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW/Smut chapter.

You are not even asleep long enough to dream, just peaceful darkness, an unaware serenity, when you are awoken harshly by a pair of hands. One is over your mouth and the other around your soft stomach. At first there is the initial panic, you stomp your heel against booted feet, bite down on the hand over your mouth, try to elbow the person behind you. But the panic rather quickly disappears and turns into realisation when you glimpse a familiar red beard out the corner of your eye and hear a familiar accented voice at your ear.

“I’m going to steal you, Little She-Bear.”

Tormund. You realise that you are not being snatched in the night by some stranger, that you are in fact in no danger at all. It is Tormund repeating, fulfilling the promise that you had overlooked as you fell asleep. It eases the tension in your shoulders, your teeth stop biting into his palm, still you had the taste, the slight metallic of blood, where you had fought off a false threat, in your mouth, you relax. You after all wanted to be stolen by Tormund, Tormund was safety, Tormund was gentleness, but this was a part of his culture and you would indulge him.

“I’m going steal you away to my room and show you how a real man uses his cock. You’ll be my beauty, my Little She-Bear” It is punctuated by a thrust of his hips into your bottom. It is vulgar and crude, more so than is usually directed at you by Tormund. He had spent so much of the time he’d known you carefully avoiding such words or insinuations, but now…now he knew you wanted him and he wanted to you. You wanted to be his wife. You wanted him to steal you. You wanted his cock in your cunt. His words finally reflected what he wanted with you, of you…and you couldn’t deny the appeal of his voice growling such words in your ear, the tingling in between your thighs at the feeling of his hips colliding back against you.

You can’t reply, hand still covering your mouth and instead find yourself encouraged to pull your shoes on, despite his eagerness he is still caring for your wellbeing, your bottom pressed tightly against his hips as he moves with you. The moment your shoes are on you are being ferried out of your room and down corridors and through halls. Guards are avoided or snuck past, it is rather thrilling but also terrifying how easily Tormund manages to sneak you past them as if he is nothing but a shadow and you one by extension.

It is a much shorter journey to his designated room than it would be over the Wall, but the idea is much the same. He stole you away in the middle of the night, you fought back (if briefly), and now you’re his. Even if you were his before it all.

You’re released from his grip as he turns to close the door, hands not fumbling once as he locks it behind him. He is anything, but nervous. The almost wild grin that over takes his face tells you that he is far from nervous or worried about this ‘event’.

You are nervous, however. As a lady you were never allowed male company…not of the carnal nature anyway, and the stories you had heard from other ladies, those that had married, were either wonderful or terrifying. It seemed the joining of man and woman could either be incredibly delightful or incredibly painful.

You stop his advance with hands at his chest, placed to keep him at a distance for you to talk, but to still allow you some contact. You want this, but you need Tormund to understand, you need your Ginger Giant to understand what this means for you.

“What is wrong?” It warms your heart to know that concern always comes first with him. That he will always be concerned for you over his own needs or wants. His hands, large as they are, come up to cover your own, intertwining your fingers against his chest.

“I’ve never…” You are not sure of the word, but as always Tormund supplies what you fail to find.

“Fucked?”

“Ladies don’t…not unless they’re married and well…I want to, I do. But I’ve heard some horrible stories, that it hurts.” That there is blood, and pain, and soreness for days, not the good type either. You knew that not all men cared for the pleasure of women, that they took what they wished…but you were unsure if that pain was from selfishness or a natural part of the process. Ladies rarely talked about sex. Even on Bear Island where the rules were laxer than most of the North or South.

“Then those ladies have been fucking idiots.” He presses his forehead against yours, you can see he is taking this seriously, and you allow yourself the moment to nuzzle your nose against his as he speaks to reassure you. “I will not hurt you. Discomfort? Maybe. But hurt? Never. I will make love to you, pleasure you, show you how it should be and you will feel sorry for those ladies in those stories, Little She-Bear.” You believe him, believe that he would never do something to hurt you and it is that that has you pressing your mouth against his instead of talking more.

You expect him to kiss like he treats you, gentle, sweet, a careful movement because he has always been so careful with you. But he doesn’t, with the walls around you, the words and feelings out, he instead kisses like he fights. Hard, rough, well. His teeth bit at your lower lip until you gasp, his tongue sliding in to meet yours. His hands delve into your hair gripping it tightly, just enough to pull against your scalp in a way that sends a shiver down your spin, your large thighs attempting to come together and failing. One of his legs slips between the two of yours, his thigh pressed up against your cunt.

You can’t help but pull away from the kiss with a gasp, your breath is rapid, your heart is racing, there is a tingling between your thighs which is only made more intense by the pressure of his thigh against you. He has slowly moved you backwards without you realising, lowering you down onto the bed he has been sleeping in since Winterfell was taken from the Bolton’s. He seems so large hovering over you.

Tormund’s beard tickles your skin as his mouth trails across your cheek towards your neck. He nips, and kisses, licks and bites along the column of your throat, you are sure there will be marks the next day but you cannot bring yourself to care. Not when your hips are rocking, pressing your cunt closer to his thigh. In that moment your woollen nightdress seems both too thin and too thick.

“That’s right, my Little She-Bear, fuck my thigh. Show me how much you want me.”

“Tormund” It is gasped out as he bites down on your neck hard enough to hurt and shoot pleasure between your thighs. You wonder why you or anyone would ever doubt Tormund’s ability to please a woman. Neither of you are undressed, his cock is nowhere near your cunt and yet you feel amazing.

Or neither of you were undressed before, because his hands are tugging at the nightdress, “Do you like this?”

“Not especially” It is breathless and barely there, but in the quiet of the room he hears and tears the item from your body. Wool ripping easily in his hands and you marvel at just how strong Tormund really is. You wonder if he isn’t part giant. Then this really would be a song to sing.

The urge to cover your body from the first man to look upon it is great, but you know that Tormund loves you, that he wants to see you. If he didn’t he wouldn’t be here, you wouldn’t be here right now. So instead you clench your fists in the furs and covers of the bed beside your hips, keeping your body clear of coverage, allowing him to lean back onto his calves and take your body in.

It is not what most southern men would find attractive. You are not thin, lean, toned. Your stomach is not flat and your arms are not thin. Your body is a collection of softness, lumps and bumps and marks. Your hips are wide and dip and curve. Your stomach is soft and protrudes, not flat or in line with the rest of your torso. Your thighs are large, and your arms are too. You are softness and roundness personified, but you feel like the most beautiful woman in Westeros when Tormund’s eyes light up like that in the moonlight, like he’s hungry for you, like he’s staring at something divine.

“Beautiful, you’re fucking gorgeous, She-Bear.” You don’t doubt it as his hands slowly and reverently trail over the softness of your stomach, tiptoeing over stretchmarks, scars and marks. As his fingers, dig into the meat of your hips, hard enough to leave a slight sting, a moan leaving your throat at the feeling combined with his thigh returned between your legs. Tormund is rougher with you than he ever has been and you like it, you like the biting of his fingers in your skin, you love the feeling of his teeth on your neck and the pull of hands in your hair.

You tug at the furs over his torso, he is still fully clothes in his usual attire and you feel an overwhelming need to see him and touch him skin to skin. He removes the layer with a practised ease, his torso free for you to peruse.

He is strong, not the sort of strong that is chiselled and carved like in paintings and statues, instead it’s the sort of strong which is oddly soft. He is beautiful with broad shoulders and a wide chest, strands of red hair covering him, freckles too. You trace a few with your fingers. “You’re beautiful. My beautiful Ginger Giant.”

He smiles at you before his head ducks, teeth grazing over your shoulders, lips trailing down your chest before they latch onto your breast. Your fingers dig into his shoulders pulling him closer, a leg slung over his hips in an attempt to bring the leg between your thighs closer to your cunt which is warm and tingling, wet and wanting.

You aren’t sure how this can get much better, how that feeling in you could grow any more, how you could get any warmer. But you do with every flick of his tongue and graze of his teeth, with every brush of his beard against your warm skin and digging of his fingers into the soft skin of your hip, with every rock of your hips into his thigh.

“Tormund…” It’s another sigh, you wonder if you’re only capable of saying his name from now on. Wonder if all over vocabulary and learning has left you. Only Tormund, Tormund, Tormund left.

His mouth has pulled away from your breast, the cold air running over the damp skin causing you to writhe slightly at the sensation. Your movements continue, along with your quiet repetition of his name, as his lips press kisses down your stomach, over rolls and bumps and marks, until he’s looking up at you from the space between your thighs. It is utterly sinful to see him there, eyes bright with desire, grin fixed in place, hands gripping at your large thighs as he pulls them over his shoulders as much as possible, before he is ducking his head towards your cunt.

It is a strange yet delightful sensation at first, the gliding of his tongue over your most sensitive parts, but that feelings quickly turns to pure pleasure, coiling in your stomach, and clenching of your muscles as his mouth wraps around your clit. You didn’t even know men could do this, that they could place there mouth there and you wonder why when it is such a wonderful feeling, when that tingling warmth becomes a fire and your hands are clutching at ginger hair.

A hand leaves your thigh to slide between them, a finger gently slipping inside you and it is both strangely too much and not enough. An unusual sensation which you want more of as you rock against his hand, his mouth still playing with your clit. You can hear the wetness, feel how wet you are and wonder if any woman could be so slick for any man?

“Tormund…” It’s not a plea to stop. Not a question. Not anything, but a prayer to him. A prayer to everything he is as he slips another finger inside you, stretching you in a way that is briefly uncomfortable before it gives way to more pleasure. There is a coiling warmth in your stomach, a feeling like you are reaching some sort of precipice.

It doesn’t take much more for you to fall off that edge, for something to snap within you, an all-encompassing warmth and pleasure falling over you. It simply takes a growl against your cunt, the realisation that Tormund is too rocking his hips against the bed, that he is enjoying this, enjoying you as much as you are.

You don’t scream, you gasp for breath, chest rising and falling rapidly as you collect yourself. But it’s not enough, not as he leans back up and over you, beard wet, lips glistening, grin firmly in place. Not as he kicks off the last of his clothing and worms his way between your thighs. Not as his hands come to rest beside your head, looming over you in a way that is not intimidating, but breath-taking.

“You’re fucking beautiful when you cum, She-Bear. My Little She-Bear.”

You gasp out, moan out as his hips rock that last few inches forward, his cock is sliding against your cunt. So easily, your wetness helping. He bumps against your clit and still sensitive skin, warm with blood. Your calves of their own accord wrap around him and tug him closer and you moan out as he nearly slips inside you.

“Tormund, please…please…” You can barely comprehend what you want, but you know you want him inside you, want him rocking close to you, want him as close as any man could ever get to you. You want him buried deep, want him filing you with his seed, want him as a wife wants a husband, want to make a start on little ginger babies.

“I’m going to fill you with my seed, make beautiful red-haired babes with you, watch you swell for me. Take you as my wife, my Little She-Bear Wife.”

He finally pushes into you and waits. Your fingers dig into his shoulders, it is an uncomfortable feeling at first, a stretch that discomforts you, not the blinding pain others have talked about, and the discomfort fades as he waits, as he stills his hips.

When that discomfort disappears for the most part you rock your hips slightly, just a little test, to see what happens and pleasure flows through your limbs, your shoulders seizing. Tormund takes it for the sign that it is and moves, his hips begin thrusting into your own, his cock rubbing against your warm inner walls with each movement. You are not sure any words could describe the warmth, the tightness, the sensation of Tormund moving within you. The feeling which has you struggling to breathe in the best of ways, has you clinging to his shoulders as your skin slaps together and one of his hands dips once more into the soft flesh of your hip. You are going to have bruises, you know that, and you can’t bring yourself to care. It is rather a nice prospect, to be marked by him, to have a reminder of this feeling, this coiling and burning and writhing.

You say his name over and over and over again like a mantra as he whispers in your ear how he’s going to make you his wife, fill you with little ginger babies, love you every day of your life. You never imagined a man could feel this good. But he does, he feels so good that it takes mere minutes for you to feel that snap, that coil break as you gasp and moan at the breaking of your pleasure.

You are still gripping him tightly as he thrusts a few more times into you, his cock dragging against your walls, before he groans out himself, faced pressed into your shoulder as he cums inside you. You will worry about Moon-Tea later, but for now, you simply hold him against you, the feeling of slick and cum between your thighs oddly pleasant.

You run a hand through the hair at the back of his neck, feeling him shiver as your nails scrape gently across his scalp. “I love you.” You whisper it into his ear, it feels as intimate as earlier, when his forehead pressed against yours in the courtyard.

He tiredly pushes himself up on his arms, pulling out of your body and rolling to the side, wrapping an arm around your plump stomach. “I love you too, She-Bear.” It is groaned out, exhausted, tired, but happy and you snuggle back into his body and let your eyes close.

You will get married soon. This you know. Neither of you want anyone to have an excuse to keep you apart. Wildling King, vicious fighter, gentle friend, giant’s bane, and soon he’ll be your husband too.


	4. Chapter 4

“Tonight.”

“Mmm? Tonight?” You look up at Tormund from your place resting against his chest, the morning after your union. His eyes are serious, but not angry or unkind, just serious. In the morning light his hair burns an even brighter red that catches your eye.

“We should marry tonight.”

“Are you sure?”

“Aye, you’re my wife. To the Free Folk anyway. I want you to be my wife to the southerners as well. My Little She-Bear wife.”

“Well, Jon could officiate, I’m sure he wouldn’t mind…and Jorah could present me. I thought he was dead but…he’s the last of my male family members. He wouldn’t argue, he knows his place in the family is…rocky at best.” You start thinking it through, you don’t have a wedding dress per say but you’re sure you have something formal and nice enough in your trunk to do as a last minute item, cloaks wouldn’t be needed for a marriage before the Old Gods and while Jon certainly isn’t Tormund’s father, he’s the King in the North, the best person to officiate. He is also your friend.

“Your family? Will they be mad?” You know he isn’t asking because he cares about them being mad, but because you will care. Tormund has never cared much what others think of him, he’s spent his whole life being treated like a savage by those south of the Wall, and while he isn’t the best with words he’s perfectly capable of defending himself if need be.

“Well, there’s not many of us left…but I’m unimportant. If Lyanna were to die, Jorah, would most likely be reinstated as heir to the seat. No one ever planned for me to be necessary to the family line. Lyanna won’t care. She’s young, and while she understands the use of marriage for political gain, I think her main concern is my happiness. Jorah won’t argue, he treads lightly around us after everything that he did. Us bears are a rare breed now. Not many people to be mad left.” You had no mother or father to be angry, no grandfather or grandmother, no aunts or uncles, only your cousins. In a way it gave you a freedom that others did not have in your position.

“Tonight.”

“Tonight. I’ll have to talk to everyone, but yes, tonight before the Weirwood.” You lay your cheek back against his chest, fingers tracing circles on his skin. It is still early, and you wish to take the time to enjoy this a little longer. Once you’re married you’ll fall asleep to him and wake up to him, you’re rather fond of the idea. Tormund is incredibly warm and as the weather grows colder and the hot springs struggle to heat the walls of Winterfell he will be a lovely night time companion, even more than that he holds you close and makes you feel safer. It is lovely to sleep besides another person.

You are surprisingly unworried about arranging a last-minute wedding or even the prospect of one. As a child you were sure that your wedding would be something that made you nervous, anxious, but instead you are eager, excited. You want to marry Tormund, you want to be his wife, not because you needed to, to prove you loved him and that he loved you, but because it bound you together in a way that seemed special, meaningful. Because being called his wife and calling him your husband sent a thrill through you.

It isn’t until hours later that you drag yourself and force Tormund out of bed. He is incredibly reluctant for a man who is used to waking at odd hours and living off little sleep, for a man who previously never had the luxury. But, you feel his reluctance yourself. His bed had become a sort of quiet sanctuary in those moments; warm, comfortable, quiet, and safe. It was sad to leave it.

“Tormund and I, we’re planning on getting married tonight before the Weirwood…would you officiate?” You know that Jon won’t likely say no, but it is a surprise and a big thing to ask of someone, but he simply smiles at you as if he’d been waiting for the question all along.

“Aye, of course I will. I’m neither of your fathers but it would be an honour. Would you like me to spread the word?”

“Please, I still need to ask Jorah to give me away, but it would be nice to have guests, people to support us. I know it might receive criticism. After all he’s the unofficial king of the Free Folk and I’m a lady but…”

“It’s a good thing. Shows the Free Folk and our folk that we can love each other, work together, it also gives both sides a stake in each other’s wellbeing. Besides, those that don’t wish to come don’t have to. Those who wish to celebrate your happiness will be there.” Jon puts a reassuring hand on your shoulder and you smile in thanks. You know criticism will come your way. After your reunion with Tormund in the courtyard yesterday you already had heard a few comments about how you were the wildling’s whore, how there was something wrong with you, how it was unfathomable for you to love a wildling.  You chose to ignore the comments, it didn’t matter what they thought. What mattered was that you were happy, Tormund was happy.

Your cousin Jorah was surprisingly easy to get on your side, while he hadn’t been at Winterfell for very long and was planning on returning to Dragonstone soon, he was seemingly unsurprised by the turn of events. He had said that it wasn’t his place to argue differently and that as long as you were happy he would gladly give you away that night. Lyanna as you expect was also perfectly accepting. Even going so far as to proclaim that a king of the Wildlings was still a king. Whether that was an attempt to feel more at ease with your marriage to a member of a Free Folk and not the nobility or a genuine belief that Tormund had similar status as Jon or any other king you weren’t sure. But you were glad for her support nonetheless.

The day trailed by slowly, with you allowing Sansa a day free from training with the sword to help you hunt for a suitable dress to wear that evening. You knew Tormund wouldn’t care if you turned up in furs or breeches, but you wanted to wear a nice dress. While it wouldn’t be a dress specifically made for your wedding day like you’d dreamed as a child, that didn’t matter because unlike you’d been told as a child you were marrying for love not politics. You could sacrifice the superficial for something much more important.

In the end you were lucky enough to realise you’d packed one of your nicer dresses to travel to Winterfell. It fit you well, in wool of your favourite colour, warm, but still pretty, a formal wool dress rather than a practical one.

Each hour trickled by slowly as you tried to find ways to amuse yourself, to keep your mind off of that evening. Reading, writing letters, discussing the prospect of getting Sansa a sword better suited for her strength. Until it was close enough that you could bathe, dress, and allow Sansa to comb and style your hair. You looked like a Northern bride, warm, pretty, prettier than you expected to feel, and excited. You looked excited, happy.

“So?” You turn to Sansa and Arya both who are watching you as you smooth down the front of the dress over your stomach and pull at lint and thread.

“You look beautiful, Y/N.” It is Arya that says it, not Sansa, and that is why you are filled with more confidence. Because Arya never says things lightly nor is she particularly bothered by appearances or dresses or anything of that sort. Its quite high praise from the younger Stark girl. Sansa nods in agreement before a knock sounds at your door.

“Come in!”

“Are you ready?” It is your cousin, Jorah, he’s dressed in what fine clothes he could find last minute, his hair combed neatly, an arm bent for you to take.

“Always.”

It is a cold night as you walk to the Godswood, snow is falling, soft and cold. Beautiful, but cold, but the warmth of your affections for Tormund, for those who stand beside the Weirwood with him to see you married, keeps you warm. He has been forced into finer clothes, he looks uncomfortable, but you know that likely he chose to change from his usual attire for you, in an attempt to impress you. It makes you smile, after all it is rather funny how he pulls at the tunic and plays with his beard to make sure he looks alright. It makes you smile even wider when he looks up at you from the where he’s stood before the Weirwood, his eyes widening, seeming to shine even from this distance, that large grin taking over his face and you know he’s restraining himself from yelling out some comment or another.

Jorah walks you closer to the Weirwood until you are a few feet away from Tormund and Jon smiles over at you, his hands clasped in front of him.

“Who comes before the Old Gods this night?” Jon asks smiling even wider if possible. You know he’s happy for you and Tormund, his two friends. You are happy that he is here, supportive as ever.

“Y/N, of House Mormont, comes here to be wed this night. A woman grown, trueborn and noble. She comes to beg the blessing of the Gods. Who comes to claim her?” Your cousin recites the words in a way that makes it clear he has spent the last hours reciting them over and over again to ensure he got them right. For his many faults you are grateful that you still have family to give you away like this, to work so hard to get those old words right.

Tormund steps forward after a glance and nod from Jon, you are sure he has been briefed on what he is supposed to do, but your customs are still strange to him and you know it must be weird to do the marriage customs of another people. The same way you found southern weddings to be rather strange, all those prayers and cloaks.

“Tormund Giantsbane, King of the Free Folk. Who gives her?”

“Jorah, of House Mormont, the son of her father’s brother.” It is so wordy compared to cousin, but weddings required words and formalities even if the weddings of the Old Gods were relatively quick and simple.

“Lady Y/N, do you take this man?” Jon asks, and you turn to face Tormund with a smile, your hand reaching out to hold his in your own.

“I take this man.” With those final words you are married, and you giggle against Tormund’s lips as he pulls you into a kiss. The clapping of guests and cheering is drowned out by the elation at being his wife, at the feeling of his smile against your mouth.

As the guests leave the Weirwood to enter the hall for the dinner which has been prepared, Tormund pulls away only to rest his forehead against yours.

“You’re now my Little She-Bear wife.”

“And you’re my Ginger Giant of a husband.” You are equals, you know that much. The Free Folk view marriage as such, Tormund views marriage as such, you view marriage as such. You are equals. He is yours and you are his and you cannot stop the grin that over takes your face at that, your nose nuzzling against his. To think mere days ago you were worried you’d never get to tell him how much you loved him, now you’re married.

“The Bear and the Giant.”

“The Bear and the Giant.” You echo his words. It would be quite the song you think, with a little embellishment of course for added entertainment. But the story of your love is enough for you. The story of how you fell in love with a wildling, a man you never thought you’d love so much, is enough.

 

_There was a Bear,_

_A Lady Fair,_

_Who Fell in love with a Ginger Giant,_

_A Wildling Ever Defiant._

_He was Kissed by Fire,_

_With a Strength to Admire,_

_She was Soft and Sweet,_

_Her House Not Known to Retreat._

_The Wall Fell,_

_And on His Possible Death She Dwelled,_

_But He Arrived at Winterfell,_

_Covered in Ice, Bruised, but Well._

_Before the Weirwood They Said Their Vows,_

_Despite the Many Raised Eyebrows,_

_A Wildling and a Lady Bound,_

_Their Love Profound._

_There was a Bear,_

_A Lady Fair,_

_Who Fell in love with a Ginger Giant,_

_A Wildling Ever Defiant._

 


End file.
